Visitations
A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU Story
By
Nana
Chapter 1
Special Thanks: To wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up) for her extraordinary patience, her excellent beta and all-around awesomeness.
Dedication: To Reapersun, who draws the most delectable Vampire!Johnlock. And to PlumpPushu, my French translator extraordinaire, who got me started again on BL (boy's love) manga after a very long hiatus.
Author's notes: Hi everyone! Welcome to another vamp!lock fic. This story project is not related to my other vampire!Sherlock fic, Possession, and in the beginning, this was only supposed to be a ficlet, inspired by Reapersun's ravishing vamp!lock illustrations, shown here and here. However, as I have quickly come to realize of my projects, this story has developed a life of its own while I was writing it, and will probably stretch to 3-4 chapters. I will need to warn you of several trigger factors: dom-sub and consent issues galore. There is a heavy element of dub-con, perhaps even future non-con, in the story. There will be scenes of forced seduction and bloodplay, along with master-servant themes. If you are squeamish of a dominant, possessive and vampiric Sherlock, then this story is not your cup of tea and I would advise you not to proceed.
All things said, if you're okay with the tags and the warnings, then I hope you will enjoy this story! Constructive comments are welcome as always.
More author's notes at the end.
Background: The theme of a vampire elite ruling over mankind is nothing new, and has been the subject of numerous movies, comics, fanfiction and fanart. When I was concocting the setting for this story, what came vividly to mind was the movie Underworld and Archia's vampire web comic, Enthrall.
In this story, vampires were human once, made super-human in a series of nuclear disasters combined with deadly viral outbreaks, all man-made. Yet over the centuries, they managed to salvage the situation and turned the world away from total annihilation. They made society functional again according to their laws. The price they extracted of their success: human servitude with varying degrees of favoritism. There were severe punishments awaiting anyone who broke the rigidly enforced rules, whether they were human or vampire. Contact between the two species was made along formal channels, except for visitations in "secret floors" where all inhibition may be cast aside.
Dr. John Watson had always considered himself as one of the nameless many who comprised the human herd. He'd never thought of himself as special, he was gifted with no particular talent and he never stood out. All his life, he had never been exemplary, and his anonymity had been a blessing.
That was all history now.
The first time Sherlock ever had him, the vampire asked John to sit on the huge, ornate bed, fully clothed. John watched, his heart in his throat, as Sherlock got down on his knees before him— all slow, unhurried grace— until he was there, kneeling between John's legs.
John would never forget how he looked— the careless sweep of those dark curls in sharp contrast with his white, porcelain features; deceptively fragile-looking, breakable. Most of all, John would never forget those eyes, the way they caught the light and shifted colors—bright aquamarine like clear seawater on a calm, sunny day one moment and the opaque, frigid gray of a raging, stormy ocean the next— all depending on their owner's mood.
And at that moment, Sherlock was hungry. There was no denying the keen, almost feral gaze that was focused exclusively on John, sending a shiver that was equal parts alarm and reluctant arousal through John's body. Yet Sherlock's movements were so slow, almost gentle, as he took John's hand to unbutton the cuff of his shirt at his wrist. Then, like a knight in a fairy tale, he raised John's hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on John's worn knuckles.
It was so entirely unexpected, so out of place here, in this setting. It was almost inappropriate. John's heart clenched at the feel of those cool, dry lips on his hand before that tender mouth moved on to lick at the pulse point on John's wrist.
They were getting down to business at last.
John steeled himself as Sherlock's long fingers closed more securely over his wrist. Not that he would ever pull away, or fight—John was not that stupid. It was too late for any of that.
Still, the feel of those sharp fangs piercing his skin made him jump and he almost jerked his hand away. A mere second, nothing more; nothing more than twin hypodermic needles embedding themselves in his flesh, John said to himself, over and over. This was nothing more than a blood donation— just the usual, bi-annual blood donation compulsory to all human subjects. It was nothing to get excited about.
He exhaled a quivering breath, forcing himself to remain still even as he felt goosebumps break out along his arm at the feel of Sherlock's tongue lapping gently against his bleeding wrist. His gaze skittered across the width of the opulent hotel room as he gradually calmed down. He heard a soft, suckling sound, and finally he looked down at the creature crouched before him.
John licked his lips, which had gone suddenly dry. Sherlock's eyes were flitted closed, the lines of his face soft with rapture as the vampire savored John's blood. John could feel his pulse quicken as he felt those full, silken lips fastened over his skin in a gentle sucking motion, vampire saliva mingling with human blood to thin it out and ensure a steady flow; he heard Sherlock's throat work as he pulled John's blood into his mouth and swallowed his nourishment. Once. Twice.
It was over in a minute, and John could not have lost more than 50 cc of blood, yet he felt strangely light-headed, his breathing erratic.
Sherlock lifted his head, and John felt a raw, tight sensation in his chest as he watched Sherlock lick away a drop of rosy fluid from the corner of his mouth. Catlike, he rose smoothly to his feet.
This, thought John as he steeled himself. This is when he pounces.
"Here," Sherlock said instead, offering an immaculate handkerchief for John to press to the wound on his wrist. "They'll have some bandages ready for you in case you need them."
Upon hearing those words, John felt a wave of unreality wash through him. Was this really how these things went during these sessions? Sherlock had barely had the equivalent of an aperitif.
Not sure how he ought to respond, John said nothing. He waited, and watched, dumbfounded, as Sherlock turned and strolled away. He casually opened the door of the hotel room and let himself out. And that was that. Their introductory session was over in less than ten minutes. John could not believe it.
Outside, John's aftercare consisted of a plaster over his wrist and a glass of orange juice. Already, the bleeding had stopped, and there would be no need for antibiotics. There was no pain around the bite, just a mild, itching sensation. John knew that vampire saliva, apart from being an anticoagulant, was also an effective anesthetic.
"That was fast," said John, laughing rather uneasily and, when the attending nurse said nothing, continued in a rush, "is that really how things go the first time around?"
The nurse shrugged. "Maybe he's just not into your blood," she said.
"Oh." John frowned at himself as he realized he wasn't sure how to feel about that. He was, after all, past the usual age of preference.
"Don't call us. We'll call you if he needs you again," said one of the attendants manning the secret floor. No other explanation was given.
"Do you need a cab, sir?" the man asked politely as John continued to stand uncertainly before him.
John knew he was effectively dismissed, so he hurried home, his heart beating a painful tattoo against his chest.
It was January 6.
John got the call three days later. Rather, he got a text message— not from the secret floor people, but from him.
The Grand Royale. Come after work if convenient. - SH
John was still digesting this piece of outlandish summons when his phone pinged again, heralding another incoming message.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
Reading the peremptory texts, John could feel his mouth thin into an ominous line. There was no point in saying yes or no. He hardly thought he had any choice in the matter. As far as anyone was concerned, his new vampire master had summoned him after work. He could only hope that Sherlock Holmes would deal with him with the same kind of consideration he'd shown John during their first meeting.
After his shift in the clinic, John found a taxi to bring him to a well-known address downtown. It was usually one of the posh hotels or corporation high rises that could stash away a secret floor or two among their myriad levels without anyone being the wiser. Except, John suspected, everyone who was in on it— vampire or human— knew of the existence of these secret floors.
A clerk came up to him as soon as he entered the vast lobby of the five-star hotel. He glanced down his clothes: black leather jacket, rumpled checked shirt beneath said jacket, dark blue jeans— definitely not the usual dress code for an evening at the Grand Royale.
"Good evening," she said pleasantly. "Are you here for an affair, sir?"
John's mouth worked silently for a moment— her words had knocked him off-balance— before he cleared his throat and said, "Umm. I'm here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"Ah," said the clerk without batting an eyelash, ever the professional hotelier. "This way, please, Dr. Watson."
She knew his name. What the hell.
John followed the assistant silently up the lifts, his eyes settling on the numbers overhead that glowed every time they passed a certain floor. He didn't know why he bothered wondering which floor it might be. Every building that housed a secret floor would doubtless vary the level of that floor. Otherwise, why bother keeping it secret? John had yet to hear of a secret floor that was actually situated on the thirteenth level. That would have been too obvious, catering to deep-rooted human superstition that would have been quite meaningless to ruthlessly logical vampire minds.
The reason for the existence of secret floors was simple enough: vampires were very private and proprietary beasts. In a society with strictly enforced conventions governing vampire-human interactions (absolutely necessary to prevent all sorts of unfortunate accidents), it was simply bad form for vampires and humans to be seen openly cavorting for any reason other than work. Even then, vampires had favorites among their human subjects, and the manner of their interaction with these favorites was styled along a highly sophisticated set of rituals that involved courtship inside a closed, gilded cage— usually a hidden suite of comfortable rooms with very thick walls and doors far away from home.
Behind those doors, if rumors were to be believed, lay heaven or hell, depending on one's vampire. John had heard that some vampires would prefer to call themselves patrons while others would prefer to be called master.
Even among predators there were varying degrees of tolerance, different shades of character.
All his life, John had never had one— a vampire lord. He belonged to that section of the human herd which was deemed too ordinary, easily overlooked; important to the vampires only as a means of perpetuating the human species, their food. These ordinary people were free to go about their jobs and lives as proscribed by the ruling vampire elite, and so long as they kept out of trouble, they might as well be invisible.
John never thought of himself as special, he was gifted with no particular talent and he never stood out. All his life, he had never been exemplary, and his anonymity had been a blessing.
That was all history now.
John stared blankly at the floor numbers as they lit up one by one: twenty-five, twenty-six.
The lift stopped before they could get to the twenty seventh floor and the doors opened onto a wood-paneled corridor with thick, luxurious carpets. At that point, John could not be bothered to think about the nature of secret floors, or anything else for that matter. There were other things to think about, to worry about, now that he was to see Sherlock again.
How had John gotten into this mess?
This started a few weeks ago when he'd gotten a visitation. Everyone knew of these dreaded incidents, made by the smooth-faced underlings of the vampire overlords, always late at night or very early in the morning, when one was disheveled, physically and mentally, by sleep.
"Come with us," they had told John, and John had had no choice but to get dressed and follow.
It's all a mistake, he had thought all throughout that long, dark ride to wherever it was they planned to take him.
He would later learn that it had nothing to do with himself at all, and everything to do with Harry— Harry who, even now, lay in a hospital specializing in human diseases and addictions. Harry, who had committed the unthinkable: acute alcohol intoxication. She had been caught indulging in a restricted substance that polluted precious human blood. From her medical evaluation, it had been clear her addiction was several months old, at least.
John had been drilled endlessly: did he know of his sister's criminal activities? She had not obtained the substance legally. Did he know of her contacts, her suppliers? How had she slipped by her bi-annual compulsory blood exams unless she had cheated the examiners? She was John's own sister; it was hard to believe that he had not known any of this.
John's answer had been the same regardless of the questions: No. No. No. He'd not known of Harry's activities. They had not spoken to each other for almost a year. Was that so difficult for vampires to understand? Surely they had siblings of their own, the monsters.
It was this last bit, spoken at the heat of the moment in a stark interrogation room when John's defenses were at a low ebb, that sealed John's fate. Or so he thought. It didn't matter, because the outcome was inevitably the same. By allowing her body to deteriorate by means of alcohol, Harry had committed a grave crime. It was nothing short of sabotage in the eyes of the vampires who governed every aspect of human life.
Harry owed a debt to the tightly controlled society in which they lived, something that she would be unable to repay with her broken body and poisoned blood. Harry was now useless to the vampires, but John was not. He was clean. A debt was a debt: as Harry's nearest kin, it would have to be John who paid the price of her transgressions. Those were the rules. Even if they were not human, familial responsibility was something that vampires understood and took very seriously.
What was in store for him? John had wondered uneasily. Hard manual labor, no doubt. His residence card would be seized, he would be ousted from the City and his identity dissolved. He would have no bearing, no status; he would be nothing—just a pair of hands in a field, or worse, in the mines. He would be food, nothing more than cattle or livestock, forced to part with a pint of his blood every few weeks.
It was the end of a life already quite devoid of meaning.
Yet the verdict, when it came, was a total surprise for John: his residence and work status would not be revoked but he would be doing community service under the supervision of a vampire superior for as long as that superior deemed necessary.
"You've got someone looking out for you, eh, John Watson," the officer who had processed his papers said sourly, peering at John with baleful, red-rimmed eyes.
John could tell the officer had serious issues with the outcome of his case. From the way he sounded, it looked as though John had been given a holiday instead of the rightful punishment that involved banishment and near-starvation.
John could not explain it himself. He knew nobody who could pull these kinds of strings so high up in the ranks.
The officer had continued to survey him with malevolent spite. "Don't think you've been given a free pass though," he had advised John with a flash of canine teeth. "Community service— everybody knows what that means. Chances are you'd be spending the rest of your short, miserable life chained up on one of those secret floors and there's no telling what can happen inside those rooms. Put a foot wrong though, and it will be my pleasure to see you here again very soon."
John had known better than to take the bait. He merely gave the vampire officer an inscrutable look before he turned on his heel, his release papers in hand.
Fucking vampires, John had thought, fuming, as he collected the stuff they had emptied from his pockets and left. They had enough powers at their disposal already. They were not supposed to be able to read minds as well, which meant his thoughts had only been too transparent.
He would have to do something about that— especially now; now, when he had to dance attendance upon one of these fiends.
True to expectations, his first summons had come two weeks later: a rendezvous on a secret floor in a Mayfair hotel.
Sherlock Holmes was trouble from the very start.
John had felt it the moment they met, when Sherlock had come through the door in his long dark coat and his cheekbones; his outstretched hand and his "Sherlock, please."
John felt it now as he walked into the tastefully furnished room at the Grand Royale to find Sherlock already there, waiting for him. John could not help but realize what a mouse must feel as it was ushered into the snake pit.
Trouble hung about Sherlock like an invisible cloak— it was all there in his slender, powerful figure encased in that well-tailored suit. his lithe stride, his unusual, beautiful face.
It was in his voice, deep-throated and gorgeous, as he said, "I've taken the liberty to order you some dinner tonight. I trust you've not eaten before coming over."
John was so surprised that it took him a moment to respond. He cleared his throat and muttered, "No. I haven't."
"What are you waiting for, then?" Sherlock murmured, pulling out a chair from a nearby table. "Sit. Eat."
It was only then that John noticed the table had been set for dinner for one.
Obviously, thought John, feeling annoyance and uneasiness spike within him at the prospect of eating in front of a vampire. It was a hideous thought, compounded by the realization that he would be next on the menu, immediately after his dinner was over.
"Look, I'm not hungry," John suddenly said.
"Liar," Sherlock said softly, fixing John with a veiled gaze. "I can hear your stomach growling."
John shot a glance down at his quietly rumbling abdomen then back at Sherlock, who merely smiled.
"We can proceed without your having had anything, but I'd much prefer it if you had. Therefore, eat," said Sherlock. "I won't accompany you while you have your meal if that is what's bothering you."
True to his word, Sherlock left him to his dinner of roast beef and buttered mashed potatoes, served with hot soup and a side salad. Incidentally, roast beef was his favorite dish. He looked at the crystal goblet at his side: nothing but plain mineral water for him to drink.
"I would have ordered the veal fricassee with mushrooms, but I thought you're more of a meat-and-potatoes man," said Sherlock as he sat on one the rose chintz armchairs a few feet away in the living room. He was busy typing into his phone.
John stared at Sherlock's straight back, a thousand questions in his head, before he picked up the heavy silverware in front of him.
I don't understand, he thought amidst the panicked confusion in his mind that threatened to crowd out reason. I don't understand.
But hunger was hunger, and John finished his meal even if he could not remember tasting any of it. Soon, the plates were empty and John had no reason to be holding his fork and knife so tightly in his hands; he put the utensils down and got up gingerly from his chair.
Sherlock merely gave him a glance. "The bathroom, John," he said, still busy with his phone. "Clean yourself, and there is a dressing gown ready behind the door."
John could feel his fingernails biting deep into his palms as he fisted his hands. His mouth was clenched so tight that his jaw was beginning to ache. But short of flying to the door for a dramatic and futile escape, what could he do?
Brusquely, he turned away and went into the bathroom. He took his time with the shower and wasted several minutes more brushing his teeth. After combing back his short hair and putting on the dressing gown, he was left staring grimly at his reflection in the mirror.
How quickly would Sherlock dispose of the door if John were to lock himself inside the bathroom?
Another useless piece of melodrama. If he were to offend this vampire, where would he end up? He could already picture that vampire prison officer with the sharp grin, waiting gleefully for his return.
Perhaps infinitely more disturbing, John could not dismiss his own mixed feelings about Sherlock: how he'd not been able to get the vampire off his mind for the last three days and that little tincture of relief he'd felt when he had gotten the texted summons— proof that the first session had not been the unmitigated fiasco that he thought it was; proof that Sherlock wanted to see him again. Then, of course, there was pure, mindless panic at the thought that Sherlock was just on the other side of this bathroom door, waiting to devour him.
How long was he going to stay holed up inside this bathroom, tortured by his thoughts?
John started as Sherlock's voice sounded through the door: "Unless you've managed to drown yourself in the tub, John, I'd rather not be kept waiting."
John stared at his reflection for a moment longer, his mouth silently forming one word: bastard.
There was nothing left to do but face Sherlock.
It was bed time. It was dinner time.
John emerged rather sheepishly from the bathroom to find Sherlock already lying on the king-sized bed, heaped with satin pillows and a dark silk coverlet. Sherlock had merely taken off his dark coat and jacket; he was still dressed in his burgundy shirt and trousers, his black stockinged feet crossed at the ankles. Lying there perfectly still and straight with his eyes closed and his hands joined under his chin as if in prayer, He could have been mistaken for dead, or asleep.
Of course he was neither.
"Come join me on the bed, John; it's very comfortable," he said without opening his eyes. He must have sensed John hovering uncertainly at the foot of the bed.
John sighed and perched himself gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Look. Why the need for this getup?" He indicated himself in the robe.
Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction and slanted John a sideways glance. "For geographical reasons," he said, and when John gave him a blank stare, he continued, "I need to take samples of you from different locations this time, not just from your wrist. I hope that's not a problem?"
John bit back his rising alarm and ground out, "I doubt if my opinion will make any difference."
"Precisely," said Sherlock, opening his eyes fully now and sitting up in a single fluid motion. "You might as well make yourself comfortable. The bed is the most logical place for the next phase of our experiment."
"Experiment?" John cried sharply, unable to believe his ears. "So, our last session—"
"Baseline reading, yes," said Sherlock, gazing at John with perfect nonchalance. "Problem?"
When John merely gaped at him, unable to say anything, Sherlock continued, "I am merely testing your blood taken during various situations. I need it for my work, you see. Three days ago was you, pre-prandial. I want to check now how you taste like after you've had a meal. Postprandial, if you will."
"You can just take my blood sugar reading. That will save you all the trouble," said John flatly.
"You know that's not the same as tasting your blood," argued Sherlock. "And there's more to it than just a change in your blood sugar. Lie down then, John. The sooner we get started, the sooner you can go home."
"So you…you're not going to take much, then?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Not beyond what is necessary," he said. "I've fed before coming here so you need not worry."
John digested this with some doubt and a great deal of profound relief and, knowing he had no more arguments to throw at Sherlock, hesitantly did what he was told.
Goodness, he thought as his back hit the soft mattress. It really does feel good.
He resisted the urge to burrow and stretch luxuriously.
There was laughter in Sherlock's voice as he said, "Relax, John. You're stiff as a board."
John stared at the ceiling in sudden fascination as he felt Sherlock undoing the belt of his robe. He could feel his face warming as he felt hands brushing aside the folds of terrycloth, exposing his body. The pounding of his heart was suddenly loud in his ears as he risked a glance down Sherlock's form, bent over him.
"Pants," murmured Sherlock, and that pale gaze slid up to John's face for a moment. "You have pants on. Really, John?"
"Well, this isn't that kind of experiment, is it?" John asked breathlessly, face growing hot.
To his credit, Sherlock was anything but coy. "No, this is not an experiment involving sex," he replied evenly, "although don't blame me if your underwear gets soiled."
"What?" Asked John, not comprehending. He lifted his head just in time to see Sherlock bend down to lick a hot, wet trail along the tender skin of his inner thigh, quite close to his clothed privates.
The groan flew past John's lips before he could stop himself. "Oh God."
He felt Sherlock's warm, moist breath against his sensitive skin for a moment, then that deep stinging sensation as Sherlock bit into his flesh. John bolted to sit upright with a shocked cry.
"Sshh…" Murmured Sherlock, one slender hand on John's chest, pushing him back down as Sherlock licked at the wound he had inflicted.
"Jesus!" said John, breathing harshly, as the faint, coppery scent of his blood registered for the first time.
Sherlock raised his head as he pressed a thumb firmly onto John's ruptured skin. "You taste…different," he breathed. "Better, here, compared to your wrist."
John said nothing, his ragged breathing speaking for itself, as he gazed helplessly at Sherlock.
"John."
John swallowed and croaked, "Yeah?"
"You're hard," said Sherlock, his gaze settling on John's tenting pants. His voice held an odd note of wonder.
Oh shit! Thought John as he followed the direction of Sherlock's gaze. His white pants felt suddenly, uncomfortably tight.
No wonder, he thought, completely mortified, as he felt a quiver pass through him at the sight of his hardening flesh encased in thin cotton. He could already see a damp spot gathering there at the front, darkening the pristine fabric somewhat, the moist patch gradually spreading. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him and his arousal spiked a thousand fold, turning into something very much like actual need.
"You found that bite on the thigh arousing," said Sherlock.
"Reflex," panted John. As if Sherlock did not know. "It's nothing but a combination of anatomy and pure re— ohjesusfuckingchrist—!"
John let out a hoarse shout as he felt Sherlock's soft, moist mouth on his clothed erection. The touch of his pointed tongue was light, almost experimental, and yet the results were quite superlative: a spasm passed through John, his back arching involuntarily, head thrown back against the silk coverlet to reveal the full column of his throat as he bucked his hips up against Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock held off for a bit, staring at John intently as he drank in the scene before him. "Fascinating," he finally said, his voice a low growl, and John found himself fisting his hands into the sheets. He wanted to tell Sherlock to wait, but instinct told him he ought to hold onto something tight instead.
Sherlock bent again to rake lightly over John with sharpened teeth and a questing tongue. A strangled sound escaped John's lips and his hands left the sheets to plunge into those dark curls, fingertips pressed hard against Sherlock's head, unconsciously guiding him, never letting him go.
Dimly, he heard Sherlock's voice: "You actually like this— like what I'm doing to you."
John squeezed his eyes shut, hair ruffling against crushed silk as he shook his head violently from side to side. Yes. No. He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
He felt Sherlock spreading his legs, felt again that sting on his other thigh, but the sensation was quickly lost amidst the stronger wave of feeling that threatened to overwhelm him as he felt those cool, agile fingers caressing his throbbing prick.
"John…"
"Do it," John found himself saying through gritted teeth. "Do it do it do it!"
He felt strong fingers tearing aside his ruined pants, felt that tongue trailing up his length and those luscious lips finally wrapping around the head of his rigid cock, and John keened.
He tossed his head back, an obscene exclamation flying from his open mouth, his body undulating with naked abandon against the silken sheets as Sherlock took him more fully into his mouth, sucking and laving at him with a practiced tongue.
Somewhere at the back of his head, a voice was whispering things, half-formed, abstract ideas about resisting, pulling away, but the whisper was easily drowned by John's actual voice, high-pitched and broken as it groaned and muttered incoherently.
It was all too much, too quickly. Sherlock had only to slide his tongue insistently against the underside of John's thick, quivering shaft and the tortured pleasure suddenly peaked. John's orgasm crashed into him with a fullness, a thoroughness, he had never before experienced. It was so intense that for a moment, he was afraid he might black out.
He slowly came back to himself to find Sherlock's mouth on his thigh once more, lips sucking hard at John's flesh as he drank greedily. When he finally had his fill, he lifted his head to wipe at his mouth, leaving a crimson trail across his lips.
"Immediately postcoital. Of course," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself. "It makes sense."
John stared at Sherlock as though he had gone mad.
"Do you want me to call in the nurse?" Sherlock said, noting his gaze, the mess of body fluids on John's body: sweat admixed with semen and blood.
"Fucking hell," muttered John breathlessly, dazed. "I thought you said this doesn't involve sex...it shouldn't involve—"
"I changed my mind," Sherlock cut in, voice deeper than John had ever heard it, edged with something dark and intoxicatingly sweet.
John's eyes flitted shut. All of a sudden he felt very tired. "Fuck you, Sherlock."
Sherlock sniggered. "And that's supposed to be a complaint?"
"Fuck," John could only repeat weakly.
There was speculative silence for a moment. "We should definitely try that in future," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. "Our session has been most instructive."
The vampire was already getting up, but before he did so, he laid a tender hand on John's trembling cheek.
"John," he said, his voice a heavy purr. "Delicious John. I never realized it before, but there is so much to look forward to, with you."
Other notes: The notion of the secret floor is lifted from the BL manga series by Asagiri Yuu.